Page 26 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—H ZALEEKHAH
By the River Thames, 2018
Z aleekhah sits up in bed, roused from a troubled sleep. Her heart beats fast, as if sensing a creeping danger she is yet to comprehend. She doesn’t need to check the clock to know what it will say: 3.34 a.m. She often wakes, to the minute, at this interstice between midnight and dawn. Brahmamuhurtha , the time of the Creator, when light energy is at its strongest, according to various faiths. The most opportune moment to burrow into your own soul and face your deepest fears, they say. For her, it is not about that. Not prayer, not meditation. It is the hour of melancholy – pure, unfiltered, restless.
Knowing she won’t be able to go back to sleep easily, she turns on the laptop by her side. In the mechanical light her face takes on a bluish tinge. A raft of media pop-ups flash across the screen.
It catches her eye immediately – there, amid reports about the US president announcing that several ISIS leaders have been captured, a train collision in Germany and the latest preparations for the royal wedding, pushed to the bottom of the webpage, is a brief news item. Following a rare thunderstorm and flash floods in Egypt, thousands of death-stalker scorpions have invaded the city of Aswan, stinging more than five hundred people and killing several. Driven out of their dens, the arachnids have skittered into people’s homes and yards, throwing everyone they encounter into a panic.
‘It was only an hour of severe rain,’ says an eyewitness. ‘Then came the flood. It happened so fast we did not have time to run away and the creatures have gone mad …’
Zaleekhah draws in a breath, latching on to the words: Then came the flood … so fast. ’
As she powers down the computer, her hand trembles slightly. She reaches down into her bag and extracts a bottle – sleeping pills. She will need them tonight. She shakes out all the tablets into her palm. She picks one, swallows it without water. Then she takes one more.
She turns off the alarm on her phone. Several WhatsApp messages await from colleagues with birthday greetings. Emojis of balloons and party streamers and cream cakes. There is also a message from her husband:
Hi Z, thinking of you. Sorry not to be with you on your birthday. I miss you more than I should, and I’m fighting the urge to call. So much is broken between us, I’m only beginning to accept, and I can’t see how we can fix it … There’s no easy way to say this: I’m filing for divorce. I thought you should hear it from me, not lawyers. Sorry things turned out this way. Hope you have a great birthday. I mean it.
Oddly, the first thing that comes to her mind is how she will tell her uncle. She rereads the message as if expecting some cryptic note to emerge. In the scope of one brief text Brian has apologized twice. She had liked this about him when they first met: a man who could easily admit his mistakes. She remembers the two of them, several cocktails in, the taste of his skin, sweet and salty at once, like the taste of summer, smooching by a fire escape behind a Chinese restaurant in Soho, until in their excitement they knocked down the rubbish bin and had to run away, scattering apologies in their wake. The memory makes her face hot. She wipes her eyes, unable to think of anything to write back.
A message pops up from Uncle Malek just then. She wonders why he is awake at this hour and if something is bothering him, but the message itself is cheerful.
Did you think we’d forget your B-day, my dear? Dinner this evening. Helen will join. There’ll be a proper cake and no fish – your aunt promised. It could still be a disaster! That is, of course, a joke. The food will be delicious and the company, too. Feel free to bring a plus one.
When Zaleekhah opens her eyes, her neck is stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. She checks the clock on her phone, realizing how terribly late it is. As she eases herself out of bed, a heaviness to her limbs, the sound of the doorbell pierces through the quiet of the houseboat. In the barely furnished space, the chime echoes loud enough to startle her.
Zaleekhah unlocks the door, sunlight flooding in. She finds herself face to face with Nen, dressed in vivid green overalls and yellow rubber boots, a rucksack on her back and a crocheted orange beanie pulled over her head. Behind her stands a tall, bald man carrying a toolbox.
‘Oh dear, we woke you up!’ Nen exclaims.
‘It’s okay.’ Zaleekhah tugs at her collar, feeling self-conscious in her pyjamas. ‘I should have been up.’
‘Gosh, I feel terrible.’ Nen smiles apologetically. ‘We’ll come back another time.’
‘No, no, don’t please. So, umm, have you been mudlarking?’
‘Yes, the low tide was early this morning,’ says Nen brightly. ‘We stopped by to check the sink, but we can return later.’
‘It’s fine, there’s no need. Now is a good time.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely, please, come on in.’
Stepping back, Zaleekhah opens the door wider to allow them in.
Another smile spreads across Nen’s face as soon as she enters. ‘Wow, this place looks bigger when empty. It was all cluttered and messy when I lived here. I like your approach.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to buy any furniture yet.’
Nodding, Nen pulls a tin out of her rucksack. ‘Here, I baked you some biscuits.’
‘For me?’ Surprised, Zaleekhah takes off the lid. Stacked inside are gingerbread biscuits shaped like miniature Mesopotamian tablets, each marked with different signs in cuneiform. ‘Oh, wow. How did you make these?’
‘Easy,’ says Nen. ‘Dough is like clay, as you saw the other day. I use a chopstick as my stylus. Each biscuit has its own word. Then I put them in the oven. Forty minutes, a hundred and eighty degrees and voilà ! I bake them for all my friends.’
‘So what does this one say?’ asks Zaleekhah pointing to a biscuit with three vertical marks on its surface.
‘That’s “Water”,’ says Nen. ‘Try it!’
‘Water –’
‘Yes, the whole batch is designed for you.’
Zaleekhah pops the biscuit into her mouth, and a melange of flavours dissolves on her tongue – ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, honey and a touch of lemon. ‘It’s delicious.’
Nen cranes her head forward. ‘And that one is “River”. You should have that, too.’
Zaleekhah does not object. She has eaten so little this whole week that her stomach welcomes the unexpected treat.
Nen turns to the plumber. ‘For my friend Rick, this one, the “Deluge”. In honour of your plumbing skills!’
The man laughs as he accepts the offer and heads off to the kitchen with his toolbox.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ Zaleekhah asks. ‘I’ve got a stool and an armchair. You’re spoilt for choice.’
‘Stool is good.’
Facing each other, they glance out of the window. A barge sails past in the distance, the water’s surface a burnished silver. In the kitchen, the plumber, headphones in his ears, hums along to a tune only he can hear.
‘I can’t offer you tea or coffee, I’m afraid. I don’t have a kettle.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve already overdosed on caffeine.’ Nen regards her kindly. ‘You seem to be travelling light.’
Though the remark is made with a smile, Zaleekhah feels a tinge of embarrassment. ‘I’m still sorting myself out.’
‘That’s how I feel every day.’
Zaleekhah runs her thumb over the edge of the armchair, startled by her words. There is such vim and briskness to the way Nen speaks and holds herself that she cannot imagine her feeling insecure or inadequate in any way.
‘I forgot to ask: the name of your shop is intriguing – The Forgotten Goddess . What does it mean?’
‘Her name was Nisaba.’ Nen leans forward, as if to confide a secret. ‘The goddess of writing and agriculture. They called her the “Lady coloured like the stars of heaven”. She was the spark of inspiration behind every story and poem. The patron of storytellers, poets and bards.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘That’s because she’s mostly forgotten.’
‘Why?’
‘You tell me.’ Nen sits back, her eyes hardening. ‘Why are women left out of history? Why do we have to piece their stories back together from fragments – like broken shards of pottery?’
It is not the question that takes Zaleekhah by surprise as much as the fervour in Nen’s voice. It requires a different intensity, almost a passion, one that she suspects she does not have, to be so openly critical of the world and its innumerable inequalities. Slowly, she says, ‘You seem to know a lot about ancient civilizations.’
‘I know a little about a few, but I’m endlessly interested in history … ever since I was a child. At uni, I read Assyriology. I completed all the courses but didn’t graduate. I was going through a rough patch at the time and I couldn’t finish my degree. I failed.’
‘Sorry to hear that –’
‘Don’t be,’ says Nen. ‘It all worked out – eventually.’
‘And the tattoo parlour?’
‘Oh, that’s my saviour. I’m very gentle with the needle, everyone says. I had worked at a few parlours before, so, when I dropped out of uni, I realized I was only good at two things in life, and those two things had nothing in common. I knew how to tattoo and I knew how to write in cuneiform. It occurred to me that there is a whole cast of characters in the Epic of Gilgamesh that’d make great imagery. That sounded like a good idea – besides, I could ink in cuneiform. And, if no one wanted it, so be it, I had nothing to lose. That’s the thing about failing: either it makes you super-afraid of failing again or, somehow, you learn to overcome fear.’
Zaleekhah sits still in thought.
‘But, much to my delight, customers seemed to like the concept. They recommended me to others. The business picked up, and it’s been doing well. I’ve done many versions of Gilgamesh, his friend-slash-boyfriend Enkidu, Humbaba the monster of the cedar forest, the temple prostitute Shamhat … they all make brilliant designs.’
‘And words? What is the most memorable thing you’ve tattooed?’
Nen pauses as she considers. ‘There was this guy – a talented athlete with a bright future. He had a terrible car accident, and was paralysed from the waist down. It crushed his soul. His career was over. He believed his life was over. He wound up in a very dark place. I think it was his wife’s love that saved him in the end – and a brilliant therapist. By the time he visited my shop, he was determined to start over. He asked me to suggest a line that would always remind him of what he had been through. Something meaningful, empowering. He wanted it on the inside of his right arm – that way he’d see it every day. So we looked over the Epic of Gilgamesh together. I read him a few passages, and he chose.’
‘What did he choose?’
‘The first line of the poem; it was perfect for him. There was a man who saw the deep. ’
‘The name of this boat?’
‘Yes, I bought the houseboat with the money I made that year – plus my lifetime’s savings – so it felt right. That’s for all the women who have gone through some shit of their own – she who saw the deep .’
Just then the plumber’s voice rings out from the kitchen. ‘Hey, Nen, I think I’m done here! Want to take a look?’
‘Fabulous.’ Nen jumps up.
She turns to Zaleekhah and says, ‘People think a tattoo is an act of rebellion or something, but, actually, it’s a form of storytelling. That’s what most customers come in for – not just some random image or word in ink. They come because they have a story to tell.’
Seconds later the three of them stand side by side, watching the water gush into the sink without any leaks.
‘All good?’ asks the plumber.
‘All good,’ says Nen. ‘Thank you, my friend. Send me the bill.’
‘Will do, boss. All right, then, catch you later.’
He grabs his toolbox, puts his headphones back on and pads away.
‘Right, I’d best get going too,’ Nen says, touching two fingers to her forehead, as if doffing her hat. As she moves aside, she spots the ornament on the shelf. ‘Oh, you have a lamassu !’
‘Yes, it’s a present from my uncle. He collects art and artefacts from all over the world. They have a gallery near your place, actually.’
Nen takes a step towards the lamassu . ‘This is a Lladró. Looks like a limited edition. It must be worth quite a bit.’
Zaleekhah blushes slightly. She has never felt comfortable with the extravagance of Uncle’s gifts. ‘He’s a bit old school, Uncle Malek; sometimes he can be a little over the top.’
Nen’s eyes, when they meet Zaleekhah’s again, are caring, and their green deeper, like a shadow at the bottom of a stream. ‘Well, he seems to be important in your life. Was it he who encouraged you to study water?’
‘Uncle Malek? No! He has zero interest in science. It was my decision, and I had to go against his wishes. And then, later on, it was a scientist who opened my eyes to the mysteries of water. If it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have got anywhere near.’ Zaleekhah pauses and breathes in slowly. ‘I lost my parents when I was seven. They died in a flash flood – they were camping by a river.’
‘I’m very sorry, that must have been so hard.’ Nen’s tone is gentle. ‘This scientist, he must have been remarkable to bring you back to a positive relationship with water.’
Zaleekhah feels a tightness in her chest. ‘He was, but he made a big mistake towards the end of his life. He became obsessed with a hypothesis he couldn’t quite prove –’
‘You mean he failed – like any other human being.’
‘I guess you can put it that way. I was brought up to think differently, though. Uncle always says people like us cannot afford to fail. Immigrants, I mean.’
Nen jams her hands in her pockets. ‘I don’t know your uncle, but I respectfully disagree. I’d have thought especially an immigrant would understand what it feels like to meet loss and still not be defeated.’
They step out on to the deck. The Thames heaves in the background, moving so slowly it seems solid, a sheet of blue glass.
Zaleekhah asks, ‘That couple I saw in your shop … did you really tattoo Eat the Rich in cuneiform?’
‘Oh, I did! It looked pretty good.’
Zaleekhah shakes her head, incredulous. ‘And how many tattoos do you have yourself – if it’s not too personal?’
Nen flashes a smile. ‘Zero.’
‘What, really?’
‘Yup, I’m terrified of needles. I’d probably faint if I saw one piercing my skin.’
They look at each other for a second and then burst into laughter.
‘A tattoo artist who’s scared of needles!’ says Zaleekhah.
It is her first joyful moment in a long time. As though she senses this, Nen’s eyes soften. There is a steady gentleness to her gaze as she says, ‘No less strange than a hydrologist who is frightened of water. It happens.’
On the towpath a kingfisher calls. Since moving here, Zaleekhah has been noticing birds. She says, quietly, ‘I guess you’re right.’
‘You should come mudlarking with us sometime.’ Nen takes her hands out of her pockets. ‘It’s a good start to the day, peaceful, calming – especially for those of us endowed with a restless heart. ’
A look of puzzlement crosses Zaleekhah’s face.
‘ Epic of Gilgamesh ,’ says Nen. ‘That’s how Gilgamesh’s mother complains to the gods: Why did you endow my son with a restless heart? You have moved him to travel … face a battle unknown ’ – Nen adjusts her rucksack and walks towards the gangway – ‘bye, Zaleekhah. It was lovely to see you.’
Zaleekhah raises her hand and her voice. ‘Thank you for getting the pipe fixed – and the biscuits!’
‘Any time.’ Nen steps off the deck and turns on her heel to wave back at her. ‘You take care of yourself.’
From the corner of her eye, Zaleekhah senses a movement at the window of the adjacent houseboat. The couple next door are watching from behind their curtains. Embarrassed to be seen in her pyjamas, she’s seized by a strong urge to go inside and close the door. But something impels her to resist, and she does the opposite. Stepping on to the gangway, she yells:
‘Hey, Nen!’
‘Yeah?’ Nen stops mid-stride.
‘Umm … There’s a dinner at my uncle’s house this evening for my birthday …’ Another twitch of the curtains.
‘It could be a bit boring – they’re quite formal, and the food might not be to your liking – but I was wondering, you and Uncle seem to have interests in common, I mean, you’re both fond of the Epic of Gilgamesh , and ancient history, and umm, yeah, so, would you like to come with me to meet the Maleks?’